by Mike Faricy
Table of Contents
Merlot
Midpoint
Merlot
Mike Faricy
* * *
Tags: Mystery, Humor, Suspense, Adventure, Thriller
Merlot borrowed funds from germaphobic mobster Declan Osborne. Now, backed by enforcer Milton, Osborne has given Merlot a week to make it right. Leave it to Merlot to fall in love with bank teller Cindy just before he plans to rob the bank. Add Otto O'Malley's infatuation with Cindy, a stripper named Serpentina,& top off with the sinister Ditschler brothers. You've got the perfect recipe for fun.
Merlot
Mike Faricy
Published by Mike Faricy, Smashwords Edition.
Copyright 2010 Mike Faricy
All rights reserved. No part of this Book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior and express permission of the copyright owner.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Discover other titles by Mike Faricy at Smashwords.com
Baby Grand
Chow For Now
Slow, Slow, Quick, Quick
Merlot
Finders Keepers
End Of The Line
Russian Roulette
Mr. Softee
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To Teresa
She never realized how truly patient she was until she married him.
Thursday
It was exactly one week before Merlot’s bank robbery went down the tubes. One week before he was taken hostage, shot in the ass, had his face splashed across the evening news and called a hero by everyone in town. One week before all of that when the body of Thor Lunquist was found.
Bank president and Mayor of Henderson, Minnesota, Thor Lunquist was found seventeen miles from Henderson, out on Minnesota Highway 19 in the kitchen of an abandoned farmhouse. The late Mr. Lunquist had been held overnight with the idea of coercing him bright and early the following morning into opening the vault of the Henderson State Bank. There was only one thing wrong with the plan. It didn’t work. An untimely breakfast coronary left Thor face down on the kitchen floor, an oddly ironic demise since he’d foreclosed on the place back in 2008.
His three abductors, brothers Mendel, Elvis, and Lucerne Ditschler did the only sensible thing. They stole the Abba CD from his PT Cruiser, rifled his pockets for cash, credit cards, and cell phone. Then fled sixty-one miles east to St. Paul in their spray painted, rust encrusted, Fleetwood Brougham Cadillac.
* * *
Merlot’s real name was Anthony, Anthony DiMento. In his early years he had been Tony to all his friends, up until the infamous wine incident some years back. From that point forward he’d been Merlot. Like the wine, pronounced ‘mur-low’. With the exception of his mother, Rita, he would always be Anthony. Her Anthony.
Merlot was just leaving his mother’s having dropped off his laundry and picked up six ironed shirts. Six shirts along with the jeans, socks, T-shirts, and boxers she had waiting for him neatly folded and stacked in a laundry basket next to a pan of lasagna and cookies.
“Ma, look, I wanted to cut the grass,” he groaned, then clicked the remote and rose off the couch.
“I’m out of time. I’ve got a meeting to go to tonight, so I better get moving. Maybe Michael next door?” the suggestion seemed as good as doing the task himself.
“Oh, Anthony, you work so hard, just like your poor father. Don’t over do. You work all this time, how will you ever find a nice girl to settle down with, raise a family?
“Mom,” he said, throwing the ziploc bag of cookies on top of the laundry basket. “I’m really busy running the place, you know,” neglecting to add that a nice girl was the last thing he needed.
He gave her a hasty kiss on the cheek, gathered his clean laundry, cookies and lasagna, then spun out the door before she had the chance to remind him a mother looked forward to becoming a grandmother.
The important meeting was actually poker with pals. He barely had enough time to unload his laundry, check in at the bar, grab a hundred from the till before dashing over to be dealt in for the first hand.
* * *
Across town, at Rudi’s Bakery on St. Paul’s East Side, a well-dressed gentleman held the door for an elderly woman. He gave a subtle nod to his gargantuan companion who promptly locked the door and turned on the red neon Closed sign.
“Hey, hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing there? You, you can’t be doing that.” Rudi yelled from behind his refrigerated counter of cream filled pastry.
He was a rotund little man with a shaved head, a naturally whiny voice and beady dark little eyes that darted back and forth from the Giant to the Gentleman, horrified he hadn’t recognized them sooner.
“Oh, Mr. Osborne, sorry, didn’t recognize you there,” he stammered backing away from the cream puffs.
“Gee, long time no see, is it that time already? I guess you might have caught me just a little short, you know.” He quickly waddled away, but in his haste knocked a tray of cream puffs to the floor making traction difficult.
“I’m good for it,” he shouted barely a second before slipping and falling, splitting his white baker trousers. As he clawed and grabbed for balance he pulled a tray of chocolate éclairs, then a tray of raspberry compotes down on top of him.
The well-dressed gentleman seemed bored by the whole affair, turned to his large companion. “Milton.” Nodding toward the kitchen area as a whipped cream and raspberry covered Rudi attempted to squeeze through the doorway on all fours. Split trousers revealed the unfortunate hint of possibly the largest pair of pink thong underwear in the western hemisphere.
“No, no, no, no, Mr. Osborne. Please, I promise, I’ll have the money for you. I just got a little behind. You understand, come on! You know I’m good for it, please, please!”
Milton grabbed Rudi roughly by the ankles, dragged him back through his whipped-cream, raspberry, and chocolate trail. Rudi’s fat fingers clawed at the worn wooden floor in a desperate effort to avoid the fate he knew was waiting. In one seemingly effortless motion Milton hoisted Rudi up and slammed him onto the oiled wooden worktable, scattering metal bowls and eliciting a loud “oof,” as the wind was knocked out of the cream-slathered baker.
“Rudolf,” intoned Osborne, brushing a dusting of powdered sugar from the sleeve of his otherwise spotless navy blue coat.
“I think I’ve been more than generous in the time I’ve given you. I’m beginning to sense a lack of resolve on your part. I fear some instruction is necessary at this juncture. Milton, if you would please,” Osborne nodded at a heavy steel cleaver.
“No, no, oh God, please!” Rudi screamed.
In one swift motion Milton grabbed the cleaver and with a practiced, downward stroke sliced off the fingertips on Rudi’s pudgy left hand. They tumbled into a vat of rising dough.
“God, you maniac, not the cinnamon rolls! Ahh, my God!” Rudi screamed.
“That might be a health code violation,” Osborne offered.
“I’ll see you in two weeks. Come Milton. Not to worry, Rudolf, we’ll help ourselves to some pastry on the way out.”
<
br /> * * *
“Hey Merlot,” Patti the bartender called out as he escaped from the stifling heat into the dim light of his air-conditioned bar. She was filling a half dozen beer glasses from behind the bar and wiggled her finger in his direction.
He winced inwardly at the memory of a gloriously wild weekend three or four months back that raced from torrid to horrid over the course of forty-eight hours. He’d done his level best to dodge her ever since.
“Merlot,” she called again, adding a hint of maternal disgust to her tone.
He just nodded, continued talking to a couple of regulars at the far end of the bar, neighborhood guys grabbing a beer and clearing out before the younger crowd began to ooze in the door around 9:00.
“Merlot!” this time louder and with a definite edge.
“Excuse me guys,” he said laughing as he walked away. “Yeah, Patti, look, I don’t…”
“Relax and save it. Couple of creeps waiting for you up in your office. Just thought you should know.”
“Creeps? What? City inspectors?”
“Got me,” she shrugged her shoulders. “Figured it would be okay with you if they waited up there,” then gave him the faintest brush as she squeezed past him.
He silently cursed their lust-induced fling. Her kids had been with her ex Friday night, all day Saturday, returning from their father’s about 5:30 Sunday evening. Merlot barely lasted until 6:00.
“Look, Patti, I’m a business guy, this ain’t gonna work for me.”
“What?”
“Well, I mean all this,” he had pointed to her son and daughter doing math problems quietly at the kitchen table. “Don’t you want to go out or something?”
As she spoke she absently cinched her robe tighter around the pleasure filled region where he’d resided for the last two days.
“Merlot, that’s not the point. I can’t go out. Tomorrow’s a school day for us.”
“But Patti, I’m not in school.”
“This isn’t about you, this is…”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean, see that’s the point.”
In retrospect he might have handled it a little better.
* * *
All water under the bridge he thought as he entered his office not sure what or who he was going to find.
“Gentlemen!” he sounded full of bravado striding into his occupied office, and thinking shit!
“Shoulda let me know you were going to be in today, I would have arranged dinner, we’ve got the best prime…”
“We’re not here for any free dinner!” the larger of the two men sneered. Large was an understatement. Hands the size of ten-pound hams, abnormally heavy eyebrows, and a low forehead that gave him an overall Neanderthal look. His gigantic frame spilled out of the green Naugahyde chair across from Merlot’s desk. Merlot couldn’t help but notice, was it foam or possibly even whipped cream on his shoes and around the cuffs of the giant’s trousers?
“Mr. DiMento, Milton means no real offense.” The second man smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. He absently brushed dust or powder from an otherwise spotless navy blue jacket.
“But there is the matter of a rather sizable payment coming due in just a little over a week, in the amount of…”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Merlot interrupted, holding up his hand, all smiles and not at all sorry.
“But according to my figures the payment, in full, is $250,000. Not to worry, I just thought I’d let the money work for me another week before paying off your loan. ‘Course I’m looking forward to paying it off, so, sorry you had to make the trip all the way over here for nothing but…”
“Bullshit,” growled Milton uncoiling from his chair and towering over Merlot.
“Please excuse my associate for responding to your rudeness in like fashion, Mr. DiMento. If you think there might be a problem we would be willing to work with you at this juncture to facilitate an equitable and painless transaction for all parties. I’m sure you can understand our concern in this matter.” Osborne absently brushed flecks of white powder from the sleeve of his coat.
“Yeah sure you would. Sorry you made the trip for nothing. I’ve got your money, just letting it work for me another week, that’s all.”
There was just the hint of something in the air, not aftershave, more like disinfectant, but mixed with something sweet, too. Was it what, a hint of raspberries?
“Very well, Mr. DiMento, we shan’t keep you from your appointed rounds, as it were. We’ll look forward to seeing you next week. In the mean time, should anything not go as you plan, you know how to reach us.”
“Yeah, right, that nine-hundred number you gave me. Thanks. What, I get charged four dollars a minute talking to you?”
“I am a business man, Mr. DiMento. That is why I’m successful and that is why you came to me for financial help, if you’ll recall.”
“How can I ever forget,” wishing to God he could.
On closer examination the almost too-lean Osborne appeared transparent, skin like pale parchment. Red-rimmed, ice blue eyes that looked eternally sore. Spotless hands, manicured nails and close cropped blond hair. He wore a heavily starched shirt, trousers pressed to a razor crease, not exactly what one expected from a mobster.
Declan Osborne controlled a major portion of the 900-number business in the nation; online interactive sex sites plus a stable of outcall services. All of which provided him with a license to print money. Money that Merlot desperately needed to stay afloat after being turned down by every conventional lender within two hundred miles. One year later, Osborne sat in Merlot’s office with his trained ape Milton, reminding him the payment was due in a week.
They stood to leave, and Merlot moved quickly to the door babbling something about how happy he was to put their mind at ease.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he cursed once they departed, swinging a fist in the air to punctuate every expletive. He wasn’t sure he could get two hundred and fifty dollars let alone two hundred and fifty thousand in a week’s time. He had signed over everything to them; the bar, the restaurant, the Lounge, the back stage and dance area. They’d get it all, every square inch if he didn’t find a way to pay. It was a simple enough equation, he just had to find two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, a quarter of a million bucks, and fast.
* * *
He inherited the bar from his father. Not exactly a gift, it came his way when Tony dropped dead from a heart attack at 47. He would tell people one minute the old man was mixing a Bloody Mary, the next thing you know he’s on the floor, dead. Tony DiMento dropped dead on a Tuesday and Merlot was running the business the following Friday night, at the tender age of twenty-two.
Over the past fifteen years he had built the place up to be a destination on everyone’s night out, live music, food, drinks. But building things up didn’t just take time, it took money and Merlot was forced to borrow two hundred and fifty thousand.
* * *
Driving out to play cards, he was thinking that if he broke two hundred and fifty thousand down into smaller pieces it sounded a lot better. Stop thinking of it as a quarter-of-a-million-dollar lump sum. One piece for each of the remaining days before payment was due. That was just twenty-six thousand, six hundred dollars plus change that he had to come up with each and every day. Which didn’t seem to help much.
“Merlot! Right on time, buddy. Get your sorry ass in here. I got the AC cranked.” Wiener opened the door, handed him a cold beer and slapped him on the back.
His real name was Stan, actually Stanislaus, Stanislaus Ostrowski. But then what kind of a kid went through life with a name like Stanislaus. They started calling him Wiener back in grammar school.
“Merlot,” chorused three guys in unison clustered around a poker table.
“Rest of the beer’s in the fridge, help yourself,” Wiener said.
The room lacked a definite feminine touch, unless you counted the large painting of a naked brunette as somehow feminine.
An hour latter S
tevie was shuffling cards.
“You know Wiener, you and Merlot, you come and go as you want. You got a refrigerator full of beer. I mean, look at this joint. You think any self-respecting woman would put up with this for even a minute?”
Where Stevie wasn’t bald, his salt-and-pepper hair and beard were close cropped. His abnormally round head, about the size of a basketball, sported brown eyes resting on either side of a nose more cosmetic than functional. He weighed in at about three hundred and fifty pounds and sold hygiene products to drugstore chains for a conglomerate no one had ever heard of.
“What are you talking about? Women like guys to be honest, and this says…”
“Face it man, you’re what we call in the legal biz a bum,” said Victor, the only black in the group; he hated the term African American. At thirty-six he was also one of the youngest and best litigators in the state of Minnesota.
“You guys kidding? That’s a fifty-two-inch screen, who wouldn’t dig that?” Merlot argued.
“Look guys, this is my really busy week, it’s the State Fair for Gods sake, so can we get on with the game here? We’re here to play cards, so let’s get down to business. I can’t be out late tonight,” Dickie said.
“Pretty tough talk coming from a banker,” Merlot said.
Friday
On the short drive into work Merlot attempted to rationalize the hundred and fifty bucks he had lost the night before, convincing himself it didn’t really seem so bad if he broke it down into nine pieces and just added another fifteen plus bucks to his daily total of twenty-six thousand six hundred dollars.
He had a vague recollection of an old girlfriend hanging up on him twice sometime after 1:30 last night. It had seemed like the thing to do at the time; call her, apologize for his behavior the last time they had been together. Then tell her he felt like talking, wondering if he could stop over. When he called back suggesting he’d been cut off she hung up a second time.
